


Silent Stone Rooms

by Mr Son (MrSon)



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Gen, M/M, Sad, sfw, werewolf!Ross
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-02
Updated: 2014-02-02
Packaged: 2018-01-10 22:17:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1165200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrSon/pseuds/Mr%20Son
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything changed after Ross was bitten by the werewolf.</p><p>(Note to the Yogscast: Do not read any of my fics on stream.)<br/>(I do not support the Yogscast company. I write because I enjoy the characters.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silent Stone Rooms

=== === ===

Everything changed after Ross was bitten by the werewolf.

Each night, as the sun went down, he hurried to the Wolf Room.

The walls of the room were three layers of granite blocks. They'd once been carved with fancy geometric patterns, but their faces were now ruined by countless claw marks and bloodstains that couldn't be scrubbed out. They'd all stopped trying long ago.

For a door, heavy steel bars fell into place from the ceiling, and bolted firmly to the floor. Each of them carried the key for the door, in case of emergency. Sank into the wall was a small safe with a combination lock, which Ross placed his own key into every night. They didn't know if the Wolf was smart enough to use keys, but it had never been able to work the safe. The safe, too, was scored with claw marks and blood-stained.

Some nights, Alsmiffy or Trottimus would be there when he locked himself in, to tell him good night. To wish him luck. To remind him, wordlessly, that he'd make it out the next morning to see them again.

Early on, they'd tried to stay the night with him, waiting just beyond the bars. They'd tried to ply the Wolf with food, and soft voices, and the promise of scritches and comfort. But the Wolf wasn't a normal animal. It was hunger. And rage. It didn't care about having a pack. It didn't seek soft touches. It only wanted to tear, and bite, and kill, and eat.

It was worst on the full moon. If it had nothing else to attack, the Wolf would turn on itself, tearing at its skin, ripping out huge patches of fur with its teeth, ramming itself into the walls and bars until its face bled and it exhausted itself. And when its wounds healed and it recovered the energy, it would start again.

After the first few full moons, his friends stopped visiting him on those nights. But there was always a chicken in the room when Ross went to shut himself in.

As horrible as the nights were, the days were amazing. After an aching thirty or forty minutes in the morning, Ross always felt refreshed and energetic. He could work harder, and faster, and he got sick less often. If he got injured, he woke up healed.

His senses were sharper, as well. He could see clearly in dimly-lit caves. He always knew where his friends were when they were at home just from their footsteps, even across the entire compound. And he was starting to be able to track them by scent. Some days, he thought he could feel when a wisp spawned, like static in his fur- hair. In his hair.

It was amazing, and sometimes he just felt so _alive_.

And then the sun would dip towards the horizon, and it would be time to once again enter the Wolf Room.

He knew it couldn't last forever. His friends didn't say anything. They tried to keep cheery faces for him. But he knew they were worried. And he knew they were trying everything they could to research a cure. He knew they'd noticed, but he didn't know if they knew that _he_ knew. Knew that he was losing himself, inch by inch.

He stayed away from mirrors these days, but he could feel his canines with his tongue. Long, sharp, and still growing. He thought his eyes reflected in the twilight. Sometimes Trott flinched when the light was just so. His beard was getting thicker, and almost seemed to have an undercoat, softer than the normal hair. And he trimmed his nails twice every week.

He never said a word to them about the changes they didn't see. How he cooked his meat a little rarer every month. How he'd pace restlessly when he was inside for too long. How sometimes he'd be trying to gather wood and hear a skittering in the leaves and he'd just... lose himself. And when he came to, half the time he'd have the remains of a small animal in his mouth. And then he would eat it.

He didn't trust himself around animals any more. His friends certainly noticed when he stopped taking his turns working in their farm animal pen. They'd quietly taken over without saying anything, of course. He might have felt better if they'd complained about the extra work. It would have been... normal.

He missed normal.

He missed staying up late working, trading jokes, dropping innuendos and friendly insults. He missed overnight adventures into the wilderness, or the caves. He even missed the fights and arguments they used to have.

Not that they never fought now, with everyone so tense. So worried. So wound up. But the fights were different. Sometimes they were almost robotic, as if they were fighting just because it was something they were used to. Because they felt a reaction was expected, not because they actually felt angry.

Other times, the fights were viciously personal. A temper would snap like a frayed string, and they'd be at each others throats without warning. And Ross was very physical with his anger these days. He'd tackle them to the ground, and scratch at their faces, and bite. Sometimes it seemed to go beyond anger. He wasn't fighting because he was angry, but because he needed to. He'd fall off the edge into a place where everything around him was an enemy, and he was _so weak_ and all he knew how to do was struggle and thrash and bite.

When he'd return to himself again, he'd be in the Wolf Room.

He'd started sneaking into their workshops when they were away from home for a long time. He'd dig through their notes, looking for their progress on a cure. It always remained the same -- nothing. He suspected that their trips, longer all the time, were meetings with the few others who might know something that could help. He feared that their trips, longer all the time, were breaks to take a rest from the stress of being around him as he lost himself.

But some mornings, he'd wake up with his head resting on someone's lap. He'd move just enough to let them know he was awake, but he'd keep his eyes shut until he heard them leave the room. It was a thin pretense, but it was all they had left. After their scent had started to fade from the room _but not from his skin or hair no it clung and drifted around him as_ he would push himself up and retrieve his key to free himself for the day.

He wouldn't say anything over breakfast, and they would carry on like nothing had happened. It could have been either of them, except that by now their scents were as familiar to him as their faces _and it was both it was both they took turns_ and he knew.

But he held his tongue, because it was all they had left. This hidden thing. This quiet, shared lie. This _not a secret_. It ached. To know that he was dying by inches. That he didn't have much time left. That the time they thought they'd have together had been stolen away from them. It would hurt so much more to say it. To throw it into the open to die with him.

_I love you._

_I love you too._

=== === ===


End file.
